“That’s the Fountain Square Theatre Building.” Anders nods straight ahead. “It’s where we’re headed.”
The building itself is large and a bit drab, but the old-fashioned signage wrapped around the ground floor is bursting with color.
“You’re beautiful,” Anders says.
What?
I turn to look at him, startled, and see that he’s grinning as he points out of the window. I follow the line of his extended finger to some large white lettering, fixed to the side of a building, that reads: YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL.
I laugh. “Well, obviously you weren’t talking about me.”
“What’s obvious about that?” he replies.
“I’m not fishing for a compliment,” I assure him. “I know I’m not.”
“Are you kidding?” He sounds vaguely incredulous.
“Nope. Bailey’s the beautiful one.” I change the subject. “What time does the party start?”
His friend Wilson has hired out a duckpin bowling alley, whatever that is. Ten-pin bowling on a smaller scale, I think.
“Eight o’clock, but he’s always late. I thought we’d go for a drink at the rooftop bar first.”
He drives round the side of the building, past the coolestvintage neon sign I’ve ever seen. It projects out from the building and is blue and pill-shaped, with white neon lines wrapping around it horizontally and yellow lettering that readsDuckpin Bowling. Next to it is aFountain Square Theatresign that’s lit with so many bulbs it would fit in well in Vegas.
There are two vintage duckpin bowling alleys in the building and once we’ve parked, Anders takes me up to the fourth floor to show me the one that we’renotgoing to later. It’s been restored to its original 1930s design, with a café up here as well as an eight-lane wooden bowling alley. The room is flooded with light thanks to a long line of windows in the whitewashed wall.
We carry on upstairs to the rooftop garden, where the surrounding landscape is completely flat and the view stretches for miles. In one corner there’s a billboard that readsFountain Square: anything but squareand beneath it hangs a big round clock with the classic red-and-white Coca-Cola sign on its face.
We sit down at a table overlooking the city’s skyscrapers in the distance, and a server comes over. I choose a rum-based cocktail and Anders opts for a low-alcohol beer. She walks away, but I can’t stop smiling.
“This is one of the most characterful places I’ve ever been to. I want to move here.”
Anders looks amused.
“I’m only half joking,” I tell him.
“Do you have an American passport?” he asks with interest.
I nod. Best present Dad ever gave me. “I was born here. In Phoenix.”
“How long were you there?”
“Until I was about six. Mum waited until after Bailey wasborn before packing up the house and taking us back to the UK. Dad had already moved to Indiana with Sheryl by then. That part of my life feels like a dream when I think about it now.”
I tell him about my parents’ red-tiled bungalow at the base of Camelback Mountain, about the sandstorms, the cacti, and the cowboy towns, and in the meantime, our server brings over our drinks.
“I’d like to go back to Arizona one day,” I say, “to see all these things that I remember, like the Grand Canyon and Lake Powell. I found an old photo album of my dad’s recently and the water was so green, with big boulders around the edges. I want to see if these places are as nice as I remember them.”
“You could do a road trip in Bambi.”
“I’d love that. I’d say you could come too, but there’s not exactly space for two bedrooms.”
He smiles. “I guess I’ll have to get my own Airstream.”
“Nah, you can borrow Bambi anytime you like. I really mean that,” I say. “He feels as much yours as mine.”
“Aw.” He seems touched as he picks up his beer.
